


Echoes of Our Heart

by inkypaws



Category: Doctor Who, The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Reunion Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-16 11:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4623405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkypaws/pseuds/inkypaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm Tucker and Clara Oswald have been happily married for two years when out of the blue and strange man in a blue box comes and steals her away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thief

**Author's Note:**

> ~there's a reason Malcolm never takes his wedding ring off~

~chapter one: thief~

 

The Doctor was here to kill Clara Oswald.

He didn’t want to do it - really didn’t want to do it, but he had no choice. When Clara had jumped into his timestream, she’d split herself a hundred thousand times across a hundred thousand galaxies and left the real her as nothing but dust and ash. The Doctor couldn’t live with the guilt of knowing Clara had died for him so he played with his own timestream, jumping in to save her in the hopes that once he got her out all the other echos would cease to exist and Clara, his Clara would wake up again.

And it had worked - mostly. All of the echos had faded away except one. The last one left that was so strong it had survived no matter what The Doctor did. He didn’t know why or how, he only knew that it had to go because as long as that Clara lived, his Clara couldn’t. He had a plan though, he wasn’t going in blind. He would have to kidnap the echo and bring her back into the Tardis in the hopes that the proximity to the real Clara and the energy from the Tardis would pull her apart.

So here he was, standing outside a home in London with a plan to kill the girl he was trying to save. The Doctor straightened out his bowtie and approached the house. There was a car and a motorbike in the drive, no lights were on inside and everything seemed to be still and silent. The Doctor hoped she was asleep - it would be so much easier for him to do what he was about to do if the echo knew nothing about it.

He crouched down, sonicing the metal keyhole. A second later there was a click and it swung open without a hint of protest. He waited for someone to shout, for an alarm to go off or a dog to come charging at him from somewhere inside the home - but nothing happened and he let out the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.

The Doctor moved forward down the hallway, by passing the stairs and heading into the living room - just in case he really lucked out and the echo was snoozing down here. He wasn’t so lucky; the living room, kitchen and dining room were devoid of life. The Doctor took this opportunity to try and gather some information about the girl he was about to kill - he needed to know what he was erasing in order to come to terms with it. Selfishly he hoped there wasn't much to find - if she had a family...Kids... Could he still do it?

The Doctor used the light from the end of his sonic screwdriver to read the bookshelves. Plenty of novels on politics, media strategy, finance. A collection of classics from War and Peace to The Jungle Book and Robin Hood. Much to his surprise there were lots of novels on space travel and unexplained mysteries. It made him wonder just how like Clara this echo would be.

The Doctor continued his investigations, noting the bottles of wine and the two glasses that accompanied it. He fingered through the various piles of paperwork, ignoring the ones from the British government and only stopping to read the ones that, much to his surprise, were sent from UNIT. He wondered if that had something to do with why the echo hadn’t faded yet - maybe UNIT was having some kind of effect on her energy.

As The Doctor shifted another pile of paperwork, something that looked like a small tv screen fell off the side and hit the rug with a thud. The Doctor picked it up, but as he did the screen lit up and a candid photo of Clara as she poured coffee appeared before him. She wore only a grey crumpled shirt that barely touched her knees. She was laughing when the image had been snapped and The Doctor couldn't help but stare - he didn't think he'd ever seen her so happy and he wondered what lucky person had been there to witness the moment.

All of a sudden the image faded and a new one took it's place - a wedding photo. Clara's echo was pulled against her husband's chest, his hand was snaked around her back, fingers resting gently on the flesh left exposed by the backless white lace wedding dress. Clara was smiling from ear to ear as they looked at the camera. The Doctor had to admit, her husband wasn’t what he was expecting - he was definitely older than her, going grey around the temples and little creases forming around his eyes and forehead. He was a whole head and shoulders taller than her too, and slim to the point of lithe. Maybe the Doctor was a bit of an ego maniac, but he’d always imagine Clara would end up with someone who looked like him - although, somewhere deep in the back of his mind the face of her husband rung alarm bells, almost like he’d seen it before.

Before he could think about it any longer, the next image flashed up. It must have been taken a moment later as they were in the same pose, but this time they were kissing. Clara had her arms around his neck and if it was at all possible, she was pressed even tighter to him as their lips met. The Doctor felt odd looking at it - like he was spying on an intimate moment. He’d kissed an echo Clara once and he doubted very much it looked as romantic as this one.

Image after image came and went. The happy couple having their first dance, making a toast, another kiss, in the airport off to their honeymoon, by the beach, in the hotel room…

“Two years.”

The Doctor jumped and threw the photo frame onto the sofa. He turned and found Clara - echo Clara - standing in the doorway staring at him. She looked just like his Clara, the one that was currently dead in his Tardis, except maybe this Clara had hair that was a little bit longer, a mouth that was a little bit fuller.

“Hi,” he said, doing his best to make her feel at ease. “Sorry. Just passing through. I hope you don’t mind. Lovely pillows.”

“We’ve been married two years, Doctor.”

The Doctor did his best to hide the shock - how did she know who he was? All the other echos had no idea… “No, no, John Smith’s the name.” He held out his hand, “nice to meet you.”

Clara took a step back. “They warned me. UNIT said you would be coming to get me. I didn’t believe them. I never thought I’d actually see you in the flesh and if I ever did, I didn’t think it would be a sad occasion.”

The Doctor edged slowly toward her. If he could get close enough to touch her forehead, he could use his telepathy to knock her out. She wouldn’t need to feel a thing. “Married?” he said, trying to play the fool and throw her off course.

“I know it probably means nothing to you,” she said, playing with the silver band on her finger, “but Malcolm and I… I just, I need you to know what you’d be destroying if you do this.”

“How do you know about any of this?” The Doctor asked, realising that this Clara knew far more than he ever dared imagine. “You’re an echo, you’re supposed to be blind - mute - ignorant to me and the whole other you.”

Clara fidgeted; he could see in her eyes she was toying with running. Turning on her heels and running back up to her husband. She was also thinking about knocking him out before he got the chance to touch her; he could read that clearly enough in her thoughts. But there was something else that the Doctor was picking up - she was curious and a tiny part of her hoped she would be able to convince him to leave without finishing what he’d came to do.

“I work with UNIT,” echo Clara said. “Have done since I was seventeen. Long story short, we had an investigation at a school in east london about three years ago. Coal Hill. And while I was there I saw a woman who looked just like me - exactly like me. I told my boss and we looked into it. See, it turns out there were echoes of me everywhere. I was giving off some weird signals so we investigated and-” Clara paused mid sentence and her eyes narrowed onto The Doctor. “But you knew all this already.”

The Doctor nodded. “Clara split herself to save me.”

“I am Clara.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said, “but you’re just an echo. And Clara, the real Clara, needs your help.”

Echo Clara shook her head, her lips pressed into a tight line. “You’re wrong. We did tests at UNIT and I’m the real thing. I’m the real Clara. You need to dematerialise the other one so I can live the life I’m supposed to.”

The Doctor knew she was lying. Of course she would say anything to save herself. He felt a pain in his chest, he really didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to kill - it wasn’t his nature… but he adored Clara, his Clara and if he didn’t do this she would never wake up and he’d be forced to live with the guilt that he let the girl who save him die. “UNIT lied to you to make this moment easier. They knew this was coming, you said so yourself.”

“No.” Her voice was stern. “I have proof. If you just come with me to UNIT, bring the other me and you’ll see. You’ll see you’re making a mistake.”

“Clara, I’m sorry-”

“Stop saying you’re sorry!” Even with the distance between them and the darkness in the room, The Doctor could see the tears in her eyes. “You have no idea what you’re doing! You can’t do this. Okay? You just can’t. I have a life here, a home, a husband…” her breath hitched, “oh God, Malcolm. I can’t do this to Malcolm, you can’t do this to Malcolm.”

The Doctor had no idea who Malcolm was, but Clara was getting louder and louder and if he didn’t act soon she’d wake someone up. He stepped nearer. “It won’t hurt. You won’t feel a thing. No one here will remember you. Malcolm won’t miss you - he won’t know who you were. I promise, he will be okay. If you come with me to the Tardis-”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” She hissed, “do you think telling me my whole existence here will mean nothing, that my husband of two years won't remember me, that my career with be wiped away like a stain on glass will make me feel better?!”

“No, but-”

Clara turned and ran - The Doctor bounded after her and caught her before she even made it to the stairs. “Get off me!” She kicked and flailed, “let me go!”

Suddenly there were heavy footsteps from above that pounded down the hallway, accompanied by a very angry, very scottish voice. “Clara? Clara!”

The Doctor struggled to get his hands on her forehead, for every time he tried, she’d jerk her head away or pull out of his reach. The appearance of a man at the top of the stairs gave him his window of opportunity. Clara stopped for just a second so he placed both of his hands across her forehead. She tried to shout his name, but she was unconscious before she had the chance to finish.

“Get your fucking hands off her!”

The Doctor saw the silhouette of the tall skinny man he thought was the same man in the wedding photos, but didn’t stick around to find out. With Clara hitched over his shoulder, The Doctor turned and ran from the home - he would have been caught easily, but the Scot was still half asleep and acting on instinct alone, so he tripped over the rug at the bottom of the stairs giving The Doctor time to escape.

His Tardis was just across the road, but carrying a human on his shoulder slowed him down far more than expected and before long his pursuer was close enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“Clara!” he called, “Clara wake up!”

The Doctor was grateful he didn’t lock the Tardis door, because he ran into it shoulder first. The door swung open, the old girl squeaking from the sudden act of violence, and The Doctor unceremoniously dropped echo Clara onto the floor and turned just in time to slam it in her husband's face.

THUD! “Open this fucking door you cunt!” THUD! “OPEN IT!”

The Doctor hurried over to his console - even though he knew her husband would never be able to get in, he still didn’t want his beloved Tardis having the stuffing kicked out of her. He had to do this quickly anyway, before echo Clara woke up and he had a whole new problem on his hands.

“Clara love? Clara darlin’ answer me.”

The Doctor tried to ignore the panic he could hear in the man’s voice. He tried to ignore how it was muffled against the wood on the door, like he was pressing his entire being against it.

“I’ll break this fucking door down! Let her out! Clara!”

The Doctor, under no circumstance, looked at the screen that would have shown him what was going on outside the door. Hearing it was bad enough. He couldn’t watch too. Once he had the settings right, he’d simply but the Tardis into take off and let the time vortex do it’s work - the proximity of the echo and the real Clara should be enough to trigger a reaction in her timestream, wiping out the echo and leaving Clara alive and whole again.

There was another thud, followed by a crack which The Doctor imagined was the sound of fist hitting wood that wasn’t actually wood. “You can’t hide in there forever!” the man shouted, “you’ve got to let her out and if you lay a fucking finger on her I swear…”

The Doctor pulled the last lever and the Tardis fired up.

“No!” There was more kicking on the door, “look.. please, just let her out. You can’t do this! you can’t fucking do this!”

The Tardis began to dematerialize and the pitch of his voice changed from panic to sheer pleading.

THUD. “I’LL KILL YOU, YOU BASTARD!” THUD. “I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!”

The Doctor watched as silvery tendrils snaked out from the centre of the Tardis, wrapping themselves around echo Clara and seeping into her skin. It was working - it was finally working! The Tardis began to wheeze and puff as more and more tendrils reached out to the echo, it got to the point where he could no longer even seen the echo under all the glowing silver.

The sound and the light hit fever pitch, saturating anything and everything inside the ship - there was a brief moment when The Doctor began to see the echo fade and he very nearly smiled. His Clara would wake up - he’d done it, he’d saved her! But before he had the chance to celebrate there was a mighty crack and pop accompanied by a flash of light so bright it knocked the Doctor off his feet and into unconsciousness.

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

Malcolm Tucker watched the blue box vanish, taking his reason to live with it.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat in the street, shouting expletives until his throat was hoarse, or cursing the name of anyone he thought of...but eventually the anger subsided. It was still there, still burning a hole in his chest, but more than that - above all else, there was an emptiness there. Something he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before, and my God, did it hurt.

So when the sun began to rise and he found the will to drag himself back into the home he and Clara shared, Malcolm did something he hadn’t done in nearly fifteen years.

He sat on the sofa, still numb from the shock, and put the wedding ring Clara had placed on his finger to his lips. Then, in silence and without any dramatic flare, Malcolm began to cry.


	2. ~Six Years Later~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six years later and Malcolm cant forget about Clara.  
> Six years later and Clara can't seem to remember Malcolm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long D: but it's here now and I promise I'm working on the next chapter as we speak :)

Malcolm Tucker watched the latest news with tired eyes. The world had gone to shit since he left politics; actual, explosive diarrhea shit. After he’d left the impossible had happened - under the non-existent guidance of Steven Fleming, Nicola Murray was elected PM. She’d been in office nearly three years and watching the UK crumble under her massive careless hands had been a painful thing for Malcolm to do - he’d fucking loved this country once - but he’d got over it and now had the hobby of occasionally pulling the old media strings to make her life difficult.

Small joys and all that.

Malcolm didn’t necessarily _miss_ Politics - he hated every last one of the fuckers for one reason or another - but back in Downing Street and DoSaC he was top dog and everyone, even the PM, shat themselves when Malcolm made himself known. But now he worked for UNIT. Unified Intelligence Taskforce; and even though he was still a spin Doctor of sorts, it involved a much hardier set of colleagues who, more often than not, let him rant and rave without the slightest consequence. He’d miss Nicola’s panicky face if it wasn’t on the news every other day for one cock up or another.

“I’m starting to think you’re missing your old job, Malcolm. That or you have an incredibly strange obsession with our lovely PM.”

Kate Lethbridge Stewart, head of UNIT and his boss of four years, entered Malcolm’s office unannounced. He didn’t take his eyes off the t.v screen. “Fuck off.”

“Hello to you to.”

Malcolm sighed and hit the mute button on the remote. Kate took the seat opposite him and put down two large folders of paperwork. Malcolm could see he wasn’t going to be going home anytime soon - not that he minded. Too many memories back there. “What the fuck’s happened now? E.T finally come home and landed in the middle of central London?”

“Not exactly,” she said, sorting out the folders into three piles. Two large and one small. Kate had the annoying fucking habit of giving tidbits of information and then going about her business like she’d said nothing. Malcolm waited, watching her fiddle with papers until finally she looked up and pushed the two larger piles toward him. “Right, last night, strange lights were seen over central, oddly enough around Big Ben and Parliament area - we’ve had issues there before with Slitheen so while we investigate we need you to discount the five recorded videos captured by civilians and discredit the twelve eyewitness statements that say not only did they see lights, but they saw a ship as well.”

“Aliens in parliament before?” Malcolm scoffed, “well, at least that would explain Ben Swain and Julius Nicholson.”

“You know I don’t know who those people are.”

“Of course I fucking know,” he said, “why the fuck do you think I say it?”

“Desperately clinging onto old memories,” Kate tutted, “sign of a mid-life-crisis Malcolm. Maybe they were right when they said you were past your prime.”

“Yeah well *they, whoever the fuck they are,” as Malcolm spoke he flicked through the documents. It wasn’t anything new - he’d be able to dig something up on the eyewitnesses to make them sound mad, “can make like a tree and fuck themselves.” His eyes flickered to the smaller pile that Kate was still holding onto. “And what’s that?”

Kate followed his gaze and gripped the papers a little tighter. “Ah. Yes. I was meaning to talk to you about this. It’s about Lucy Harding.”

Malcolm thought back, but couldn’t recall anyone by that name. “Who?”

“Christ Malcolm,” Kate shoved the papers in her hands toward him. “You didn’t even bother to learn her name. She wants you arrested, don’t you get that?”  

Malcolm shrugged. That was nothing new, everyone wanted to see him behind bars for one reason or another. “So you want me to deal with it?”

“No, I do not want you to ‘deal with it’. I want you to apologise.”

“Apologise?!” Malcolm spat out the word. “I don’t even know what the fuck it is I’ve supposedly done.”

Kate sighed, clearly exasperated. “You followed her around London, then you grabbed her in the street because you thought she was Clara.”

Malcolm did his best to ignore the ache in his chest when anyone mentioned her name - he tried to ignore the pain that hadn’t gone away even after all these years. Malcolm didn’t think UNIT knew about that little… incident. He thought he’d got away with it. She just… she looked so much like Clara from behind that he was so sure… “I told her I was sorry.”

“For heaven's sake, Malcolm a mumbled ‘I’m sorry’ as you try to flee the scene isn’t the same as a public apology with an explanation for why you approached a random woman in the first place. Which is why,” Kate pulled a heavy leaded envelope from her blazer pocket, “we’ve drafted you a letter of apology. We just need you to sign it and we’ll send it to her and to the press.”

Malcolm skim read the letter. ‘Sincerest apologies’ , ‘deepest regret’ , ‘utmost respect’ , ‘seeking advice’... “stress related delusions? Kate, I’m not fucking - Fucking hell you can’t make me say that.”

“I can make you say whatever I want,” she said. “I don’t want to do it either - but we’ve got no choice. She told the media pack that you called her Clara. If we don’t respond, and quickly, all the old headlines will come back to haunt you. You know better than anyone how this works Malcolm - injure yourself before they do it for you.”

Malcolm, despite himself, thought back to the weeks after Clara’s disappearance. He remembered the alcohol - drinking bottles at a time. He remembered the anger, the _hate_ , that followed him around. No one seemed to remember her apart from him; people thought he lost his mind when he started a search, the police took pity on him because they thought he was mad. He looked for weeks, calling in any and all media mogul he knew to help find his wife… but nothing came of it. There wasn’t a single record of her anywhere. Like she’d been wiped from existence.

Malcolm spiraled even further then and his career took the flack. He started making mistakes, leaking information left and right, attacking his own party... and very quickly his political kingdom started to collapse around him - if it hadn’t been for UNIT appearing at just the right time and offering him not only a job, but the hope that they too believed Clara existed, Malcolm would have ended up ruined and probably imprisoned or dead.

“She _is_ real,” he eventually said, more to himself than Kate. “I fucking know it.”

“Malcolm,” Kate said gently, “that’s okay. That’s fine, but right now I need you to sign this letter and promise me that you won’t do it again.”

He had no choice and he knew it so he picked up a pen and sighed his name at the bottom. “There. If this isn’t enough then tough shit. I’m not doing any interviews.”

Kate took the letter and stood. “I’m sure this will suffice, Malcolm.” Then she smiled, “now come on, get to work. Prove to me I didn’t just hire you for your heart-warming personality.”

Malcolm watched her leave his office and then waited a good five minutes, just to be sure she wasn’t coming back, before raising his hand to his lips and kissing his ring finger. No matter what the world said, Clara was real and he would never stop believing it.

 

~*~*~*~*~

The Doctor was creating havoc in Clara’s kitchen. After expressing his disappointment that she didn’t have custard, he took it upon himself to find something else to his liking and was now serving her chicken nuggets and chocolate sauce. Clara watched him devour one after the other, wondering how he ever passed for human in the first place.

“Do you always get like this after an adventure?”

The Doctor grinned, chocolate sauce dripping down his chin. “Saving the world is hungry work.” He waved a nugget at her, “here, have one.”

“Uh, no thanks. I need to start cleaning this mess,” she gave him a pointed look, “my nan’s coming over.” Her phone buzzed from the other room. “That’s probably her now.”

“Granny Oswald!” he said, “I like her. She smells like mints.”

Clara laughed and left the kitchen to go and grab her phone - as expected it was her nan double checking it was still okay to come over. She’d be here in the hour and Clara still had to clean the kitchen *and get rid of The Doctor. “Right Doctor, grab your rubber gloves-”

“All done,” he said, smiling. The kitchen was spotless, even cleaner than when Clara had tidied it up… and could she smell cooking?

“Is that croissants?” she asked, eyeing the object in her oven.

“Well, I thought your nan would appreciate something sweet so I popped back to this lovely little 18th century french patisserie and grabbed a plate of their finest-”

Clara shut him up with a hug. “Thank you.”

"It's just a croissant," he said, "But I'll take the hug anyway." They let each other go and The Doctor stepped back. "Righy, well I better get going. See you..."

"Next Wednesday."

He nodded. "Wednesday."

Clara watched him leave, and five minutes later heard the whirring of the Tardis as it took off from outside her flat. As soon as everything fell silent, Clara felt the emptiness of her flat creep back around her. She loved her independence and she loved having time to herself after a hard day of saving the world... Or teaching kids. But sometimes she got lonely. Sometimes she'd swear there was supposed to be someone here with her, calling her name or holding her close. Sometimes she’d wake up, feeling like someone was laying next with their arms around her keeping her warm… It was so real she'd often swear she could hear a voice.

Of course it was all in her head. The only man in her life, her only true friend, was The Doctor and he was impossible. And married. And definitely not into school teachers.

Clara still had a good forty minutes before her gran arrived so she made herself a cup of tea and plonked herself down in front of the T.V. She was only half listening to the news when the story about a Scottish spin Doctor broke; and maybe it was the consistent use of the word ‘doctor’ or maybe she was just bored of staring into her mug, but either way Clara turned the volume up and gave the news reporter her full attention.

“Former Labour Spin Doctor, Malcolm Tucker, has just released a formal apology on the matter at hand, calling his outburst a grievous mistake and suggesting that he will be seeking further help. We have his victim, Lucy Harris live with us now.”

Lucy Harris appeared on screen - she was middle aged, dressed in some kind of dowdy business suit and had her long dark brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. Clara wondered why a politician's advisor would be interested in someone like Lucy.

“Miss. Harris, what is your response to Malcolm Tucker’s apology?”

Clara frowned. _Malcolm Tucker_. Why did that name ring a bell? It had an odd sense of nostalgia attached to it, like she knew the name almost as well as her own. She repeated it a few times in her head, unable to place the niggling feeling she got everytime she uttered it. And then when a picture of the aforementioned ‘Spin Doctor’ appeared on the television, Clara’s sense of familiarity grew. She… she almost recognised him. Had she met him before? _No_ , she was being silly now. Obviously she was used to seeing him on the T.V and that was where the familiarity came from.

As if she would know a politician, or anyone related to a politician. Clara shook her head and changed channel, settling back into the sofa and waiting for her nan to arrive.

 

 


	3. ~ The Queens Head ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara wanders into a pub frequented by angry drunk, Malcolm Tucker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like it :) Sorry if it's kinda short - let me know what you think :3

 

Clara was standing outside the Houses Of Parliament, pulling her best ‘i’m-very-unimpressed-face’ she could manage. “You said an _adventure._ This is not an adventure this is… this is sight seeing! You do realise I live in London, don’t you? I could see this any day of the week. Are we even in a different year? Have we at least time travelled?”

The Doctor shut the TARDIS door. “Nope. Same year - same day actually - as when I picked you up thirty seconds ago. Today’s adventure is an adventure into the present.”

“Are you seriously telling me I gave up a relaxing day off of school to come and stare at british landmarks?”

“No,” he said, holding out his arm to her. “I’m telling you, you gave up a day of non-teachery stuff to have a little chat with your PM about alien going on’s.”

Clara looked over her shoulder at him. “We’re going inside the houses of parliament?”

The Doctor grinned. “To investigate top secret things.”

“Really? Like FBI things?”

He nodded and offered her his arm. Clara couldn’t stay angry at her floppy haired hero for long so eagerly took it and followed him to the front door. As they didn’t take the public entrance, and instead veered off around a corner when no one was looking, they didn’t make it very far before men in uniform stopped them in their tracks.

“Oi! What are you doing back here?”

Clara noticed they had dangerous looking things on their belts… tasers, handcuffs… she gripped onto the Doctor's arm a little bit tighter.

“John Smith and my colleague Sarah John. MI6.” The Doctor thrust his psychic paper at the face of the nearest guard and let him read it. As always it worked a charm and a moment later they were being hastily ushered inside and into the private chambers.

"So what are we looking for exactly?" asked Clara, trying to speak low enough for her voice not to echo along the corridors.

"Cliff was reported acting strange before going missing last week. We're here to investigate."

Clara knew that wasn't all of it. "A politician going off the rails? It's not exactly breaking news." Clara was even sure she vaguely remembered a similar story all over the news a couple of years back.

“Ah ha, Clara always asking the right questions. Someone found his body and went to find help, when they came back it was gone and two hours later they caught Mr. C on CCTV making a hurried escape out the back door. Hasn’t been seen since.”

Clara shrugged. “Still doesn’t sound alien.”

“Then you’re not listening.”

Their escorts lead them round a corner and then through a wooden door with panicked sounding voices coming out from behind it. “-you didn’t fucking, oh for fuck sake Ollie!”

The woman talking, much to Clara’s surprise, was none other than the PM, Nicola Murray. The moment she saw them, her eyes bulged slightly and Clara briefly wondered if she was the suspicious one. “Hello, Nicola Murray,” she offered them her hand and The Doctor took it, shaking it so hard the poor woman seemed to rattle.

“John Smith. MI6. We’re here about Cliff. Poor guy. Cliff was great, loved Cliff.” As The Doctor spoke he wandered around the office, eyes darting left and right seeing things Clara would no doubt never be able to see. “So Nicola, what can you tell me about Cliff then?”

“Uh, um well you see,” she glanced to her side, bringing the skinny man lurking in the background into focus. He was young, probably only a few years older than Clara, and had a mess of curls for hair - Clara didn’t like the way he was looking at her. “My colleague Ollie here, didn’t… didn’t actually tell me you were coming so, so you see I didn’t have time to prepare a statement.”

Clara’s eyes narrowed. The Doctor might be able to be about a serious as a five year old on a space hopper, but Clara could certainly ramp up her authority when she needed to. “We’re not asking for a statement Prime Minister, we’re asking you about your predecessor Mr. Lawton and what you know of his apparent death.”

Clara was so intent on staring down the PM, she didn’t notice The Doctor’s attention flicker to her for just a second. The Doctor felt the pinpricks of worry. He hadn’t mentioned Cliff’s last name.

“Shitting tit-wank Ollie, you didn’t tell me he was dead!” The PM rounded on Ollie, “don’t you think I might need to know that kind of information!”

“I was _going_ to say something, but he’s not dead. They caught him on camera leaving the building a couple hours later.” He was ringing his hands together, “it’s probably just another Mr. Tickle on our hands - before he killed himself I mean.”

“And we all know how well that worked out, don’t we?!” Nicola Murray looked like she was about to collapse from stress. Seeming to remember she had guests, Nicola turned back to the Doctor and offered him an exhausted smile. “Sorry. Sorry. Busy day at the office and all.”

The Doctor jumped up from the chair he’d been slouching on and clapped his hands together. “Right. Okay, can you take me to the person who discovered his body?”

Ollie fumbled with his papers, clearly believing he was in the presence of actual MI6 agents with the very real power to remove him from his job. “O-Of course, this way Mr. Smith. Miss John.”

“No, just me I’m afraid. My colleague has all the information she needs.”

Clara glared at him. What was he playing at? “Wha-”

“This way,” said Ollie, interrupting her. “I’ll take you to Robyn, Nicola will escort you out… Sarah was it?” he offered her his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

The Doctor followed him out of the room, but before he passed she felt a piece of paper be pushed into the palm of her hand. She put it in her pocket, careful not to let anyone see. Nicola Murray lead her out - and Clara had to remind herself it wasn’t everyday you get escorted around by the *Prime Minister, no matter how incompetent she might appear.

They said their goodbyes a good few corridors before the actual exit and then a lady called Sam showed her the rest of the way out. Only when Clara was far enough away from the guards still standing outside did she pull the note from her pocket read what it said. Scrawled across it in the Doctors messy handwriting were the words ‘The Queens Head.’

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The Queens Head was a tiny pub, squished somewhere between a disused office and a porn shop. It lived in a back alley of a back alley and the only people who knew it existed were prostitutes and politicians. The Queens Head only boasted two regular drinkers.

“I hate this shithole. It’s full of plebs and drunks.” Peter Mannion rolled his scotch around his glass. “Why do you insist we come here?”

Malcolm Tucker had finished his scotch - double, it had been that kind of day - ages ago and was waiting for his next round to be brought to the table. “It reminds me of DoSAC.”

“Maybe when your guys were there, but let me tell you ever since Nicola’s been running the country, DoSAC looks like the holy fucking grail. It would take Phil to dress up as The Queen and fuck a swan to make us look half as bad as your party right now.”

“Don’t speak too soon,” Malcolm tapped his phone that was on the table, “I’ve seen his outfit for halloween.”

“Ha-fucking-ha.”

The two men fell back into a practiced silence. They didn’t meet to chat, or reminisce old times, they met because out of all the fuckers they worked with, each other was the only one the other could bare. And hell, two men in their fifties were bound to get bored sometimes so a bonding session over booze and bollocking often worked the charm.

Malcolm’s phone buzzed and he laughed out loud.

“What is it?” Mannion was checking his phone, waiting for the same email to come through.

“Ben Swain caught leaving gentlemen's club dressed as german sausage? Well fuck me, I warned him about that too.” Malcolm showed his phone to Mannion who was still waiting for the text to come through.

“How can you, a name black-listed in nearly every bloody political circle, still get information before I do!”

“Not Black-listed, dickhead. _Feared._ ” Mannions phone buzzed and Malcolm watched him scramble for it. “There you go, welcome to the 21st century, Old guard.”

“Fuck you.”

The barman came over and put two double scotch in front of Malcolm and took his order for two more before slinking back to the bar. Malcolm necked back one of the drinks, and then swirled the other one around for a bit.

“Go easy there, Malc. Too much to drink and you might not be able to string more than three swear words together.”

Malcolm just gave him a look and Peter knew to drop it. Silence resumed and together they got through a few more rounds to the point where Malcolm’s vision was starting to sway and blur around the edges. He was about to call it a day and head back to the office - because he rarely spent more than a few hours at home anymore - when a voice rang out across the bar.

“Oh, uh hi.  Sarah John. MI6. I was wondering if you knew anything about the disappearance of Cliff Lawton? Apparently he was last seen here.”

Now this voice attracted a lot of attention. Mainly because it was female and not looking for escort work, partly because she was asking a bar full of politicians about the disappearance no one wanted to leak to the press but thirdly - and most importantly for Malcolm - she sounded like Clara.

“Ah well,” said Mannion, finishing his drink, “looks like the press found us afterall.”

But Malcolm wasn’t listening. He knew that voice. He’d know that voice anywhere.

Malcolm got to his feet so quickly he stumbled from the sudden headrush. “Clara?” he slurred. Could he be dreaming? Was he that drunk that now he was hearing her voice? Christ, he didn’t think he could handle that.

Mannion was standing now too, being the only person to hear Malcolm mutter her name. “For fuck sake, Tucker, keep your voice down will you? You’ve just narrowly avoided a shit storm for harassing a woman on the street - you don’t want people to hear you doing it again.”

Still not really paying attention to Peter, Malcolm was scanning the bar for her. He wasn’t crazy, he’d heard her voice, he knew it. His eyes darted back and forth, looking for the back of a head he’d recognise no matter how large the crowd...  and then like an electric shock to his system, he saw her.

Clara was standing at the bar, on her tiptoes, leaning over to hear whatever it was the barman was saying, then pointing an angry finger at him when he wasn’t answering. She was just as he remembered. Tiny, beautiful, feisty… his wife. For a few seconds he just stood there - dumbstruck that this was really happening, that after six years of being told he was crazy there she was. There was his Clara barely ten feet in front of him, looking as glorious as she did the day he first saw her.

And then Malcolm was moving, staggering toward her with as much speed and accuracy as is drunk self would allow. He hadn’t smiled in years, but he was smiling now - grinning from ear to ear. He hadn’t felt in years, but now he was feeling all over - he could feel her in his arms once more, he could hear her heartbeat against his chest, her lips against his…

“Malcolm, what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” Mannion had his hand on his shoulder, pulling him to an easy stop.

Malcolm shook him off. “Fuck off! Clara! Clar-”

Mannion stopped him again, this time by stepping in front of him. “Will you be quiet? For fuck sake Malcolm, people are staring. I thought we went through this, you admitted you needed help with the whole ‘wife’ issue and I put my neck and my party on the fucking line by saying you weren’t completely insane!”

“Get your fucking paws off me,” Malcolm shoved Mannion away, but Peter was twice his weight and didn’t budge easily. “Clara!”

Clara turned, hearing her name over the crowd, and if he wasn’t sure it was her before he was now. Those big brown eyes he’d spent many an hour staring at searched the suddenly busy bar for whoever shouted for her. Malcolm took in all her features - she hadn’t aged a day. The same bow lips, the same heart shaped face and creamy skin he’d fallen in love with over and over again. Clara, Mrs. Tucker.

Malcolm fought harder and with a twist of his arm released himself from Mannions hold. Mannion stumbled back and into another drinker, who reacted only by swinging his fist and a moment later, before Malcolm had any chance to move any further, he found himself in the middle of a brawl. Through the flailing arms and drunken slurs, Malcolm could see Clara still searching for the source of her name, but her eyes never found him. He went to call her name again, but someone beat him too it.

“Clara!”

Appearing from somewhere behind *his wife, Malcolm saw the one person he hated most. The man in the bow tie that stole his life away. Clara turned to his voice immediately and Malcolm was suddenly enraged when bow-twat enveloped her in a hug.

“OI!” he roared, sudden rage coursing through him. “Clara wait!”

She couldn’t hear him, but the floppy-haired bastard did and in the instant they locked eyes, Malcolm knew that he recognised him. Malcolm saw a flash of horror in the young man's eyes followed by panic. He was grabbing Clara by the hand and pulling her out of the pub and Malcolm blanched. This couldn’t be happening; not again.

He broke free of the fight and tried to chase after them, but Peter Mannion had the same idea and was trying to grab hold of Malcolm. Malcolm was determined though, and managed to get as far as outside into the cold London air before Mannion managed to get a grip on his blazer collar and pull him back.

“Clara!” Malcolm yelled, his own voice echoing around the empty back street. “CLARA!”

“Malcolm shut up-!”

But Peter’s voice was drowned out by a strange, metallic whirring. Something Malcolm would always remember - it was the sound of that vanishing box and he knew in his gut it was too late, Clara and the bow-tie dickhead were long gone.

“Have we calmed the fuck down now?”

Malcolm didn’t think he just swung. Pivoting on the spot, Malcolm brought his fist round and caught Peter right under the chin. Peter fell back against the brick wall of the pub clutching a very bloody, very split lip.

“You’ve broken my jaw!” said Mannion through a mouthful of blood. “You’ve broken my fucking jaw!”

“Good!” Malcolm spat, turning and pacing in front of his injured friend. His mind was racing at a mile a minute. Clara was here. Clara had been right here. Right within his reach and… and he hadn’t done a thing about it. He’d been too slow, he hadn’t fought hard enough, he… a sudden rush of how he felt the night she’d been stolen from him, washed through him nearly forcing him to his knees. He hadn’t been enough to save her then, and he hadn’t been enough to do it now. Was he now to endure another six years before he’d see her again? When he was even older and even slower?

“You’ve fucked yourself this time Malcolm,”came the slurred voice of Peter Mannion.

Malcolm didn’t respond, not directly anyway. “She was here… not again… for christ sake not again…”

“Do you want to know why people still you give you media information?” Mannion, holding his handkerchief to his chin, got up and came toward Malcolm. “Not because you’re feared, but because they _pity_ you. They feel _sorry_ for you, because unlike you Malcolm, we said we’d protect our own - even if they’re fucking mental scottish, bitter old men.”

The words cut Malcolm deeper than he thought, but he’d be damned if he admitted it. And it didn’t matter what Mannion said, it was all secondary. Malcolm had just lost Clara - again. Malcolm prodded his own chest, “I don’t need anyones shit-stained pity.”

Peter just looked at him for a long moment before sighing. “You’ve got it anyway.”  

 

~*~*~*~*~

Hours later Malcolm was still not home. He searched every back street within five miles of the pub, twice over. He found nothing. So he wandered around, waiting for the moment when his phone would start ringing off the hook, trying to get a statement about his ‘episode’ today.

Nothing happened and Malcolm was surprised - he’d expected Mannion to go and blab to the press the second he got the chance. Maybe the old dog wasn’t a complete wanker.

It was coming up for early evening when Malcolm finally decided to get a cab home - he told the driver to take the long route so it was no surprise that he still wasn’t indoors when his mobile did begin to ring.

It was Kate.

“What?” Malcolm said, pressing the phone to his ear.

“You need to come to my office.”

Malcolm could tell by her tone of voice she knew. Bastard, Malcolm thought. Mannion didn’t tell the press, but instead ran his mouth to his boss. Fucking brilliant. “I’ve just booked myself in for a thai massage and a happy ending. So I can’t-”

“Now Malcolm.”

The line went dead and Malcolm felt a sense of dread.

How would he worm his way out of this one? 


End file.
